


The Spiral

by TwinEnigma



Series: Misc YJAM fills [15]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Mild Language, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Young Justice Anon Meme, mention of bullying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2019-11-13 10:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18029648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinEnigma/pseuds/TwinEnigma
Summary: Dick Grayson lives with PTSD. This isn't easy.





	1. 1

                Dick’s numb at first.

                It doesn’t really set in, he supposes, until later and, even then, he doesn’t quite understand what it means.  It’s almost too abstract a concept and he keeps thinking it’s a bad dream, that he’ll wake up back in their home and they’ll all be there, but he doesn’t.  He never does.

                Some days, though, it feels like he’s been gutted.  He doesn’t want to move.  He doesn’t want to sleep or eat.  When he moves at all, it’s as if his body’s on autopilot and his mind is left somewhere else.  He just exists, caught somewhere between that moment and this one.

                The shrink says he’s just mourning and that’s normal.  He says that it won’t stop hurting, but it’ll get easier.

                One of these days, he may just believe him.


	2. 2

                He doesn’t sleep, not really.  It’s hard to.  This place is so empty and oppressively silent.  It’s hard to breathe, let alone sleep, with the silence so absolute.  He finds himself wandering the halls in the middle of the night, far from his room.   He can’t hear anything in his room, so he wanders until he finds the study couch and waits, listening.  How else will he know everyone has come home safely?

                Sometimes, he falls asleep there waiting.  It’s one of the only places he can.

                He doesn’t tell the shrink about it.

                Its normal, isn’t it?


	3. 3

                It’s only when he falls for the first time that he realizes something isn’t right and it’ll never be right again.

                He’s on the bars.  It’s a standard exercise.  He’d found the private gym in his nightly wanderings and, ever since then, he’s been working up to coming inside and getting back on these bars.  He’s been here a while, trying to get the rust of sitting and mourning off.  He’s never been off the bars and wires for more than a few days in his whole life.

                He comes off the bar, pulls his body into a tight spin, and then out.  His fingers brush the bar, but they miss, sliding by in seemingly slow motion and…

                He’s back there, watching as his whole family plummets to the ground.  He barely even registers the fact that his body hits the mats because he’s screaming and flailing on that platform, not in the gym. He doesn’t even realize he’s the one who bruised Bruce’s face until he sees the damage to his own knuckles.

                The shrink says it may be acute stress disorder.  He encourages Dick to talk about it, that talking will help.

                Dick thinks he’s an idiot.

                He doesn’t want to talk about it.  No amount of talking will change anything.  He just wants to be left alone.  Or punch something.

                He doesn’t need pity.

                He needs to punch something.


	4. 4

                Dick doesn’t like the kids at school.  They’re rich and spoiled.  He doubts they’ve ever had to work for anything a day in their lives.  And worse, they think that entitles them to look down on people they consider their lesser.

                People like him, for example.

                “I’m sure if you just try, you’ll see that not all of them are so bad.  Don’t give up, try harder,” his teachers tell him.

                He wants to tell them to go fuck themselves, but always stays his tongue.  They’re idiots.  There’s no way they’d understand.  They have no idea what it’s like.

                He’s not stupid or deaf.  He’s certainly not blind either.  He knows they’re talking about him behind his back and sees the condescension and derision in their eyes.  He hears the insults, the dirty gossip about him being a charity case or worse, and it’s maddening.

                He tries not to respond, but it’s hard.  He’s angry, he’s so angry, all the time, and they’re easy to reach.  But he’s still small and there are bigger, meaner upperclassmen who won’t see a problem with stuffing a nine-year old in a trashcan.

                Instead, he avoids them.  It’s startlingly easy to do, once he’s memorized the layout of the school grounds.  There’s a billion and one places to hide and he knows all of them.  He takes the side stairs, uses the old shortcut through the lower lounge and past the old wrestling gym.  He cuts through the art studios and the lower levels of the science building where he can.  He sits with his back to the windows in the dining hall and in classrooms, always close to the doors so he can slip out fast.  He is always the first to arrive and the first to leave, disappearing into the crowds of students, and reappearing only when it’s safe.

                Most of his classmates think he’s weird and creepy, except for the few from working class families or on scholarship.  They, at least, are decent people and a hell of a lot more honest than these other kids.  It’s them he sticks to and finds his only acquaintances with.  They’re not friends, not yet, because he can’t trust them.

                Every kid here would screw each other over in a heartbeat if it meant belonging.

                Belonging, after all, means safety from those jerks.

                And they don’t want him around, he knows that.

                He can see it, even if no one else does.


	5. 5

                The shrink asks him how he’s sleeping.

                Dick shrugs and says “Fine, I guess.”

                He doesn’t tell him that he still wanders the halls, that he can’t sleep until Bruce is back, and sometimes finds himself asleep on the couch in the study.  It’s not like he’s not sleeping at all or having nightmares.   In fact, it’s just the opposite.  He’s sleeping very well (as soon as everyone’s safely home, that is) and he doesn’t have nightmares at all (but he doesn’t dream either).

                The shrink asks how he’s adjusting to his new school.

                “Fine,” Dick says.

                Everything’s normal schoolyard business – bullies and drama included – so he doesn’t think any of it bears mentioning to this yahoo with a notebook.

                “I know you mentioned you were feeling frustrated,” the shrink says.  “How are things going on that front?”

                “Fine,” Dick says, rubbing his bandaged knuckles.

                Becoming Robin helps with the anger, even if Bruce – _Batman_ – won’t let him out on the streets yet.  It feels good when he hits the training bags.  The slap of flesh on fabric feels real, shocks life into him and it leaves him tired, aching, and dreamless.  Every night, he trains until he is bruised and bloody and, for the first time since the murders, he doesn’t feel like an alien in his own skin.  That alone is enough to make him smile.  The teachers notice.  Other students stop avoiding him and he humors them, even though they still make him uncomfortable.  He still sticks to his few acquaintances among the outcasts, though, and their presence is usually enough to dissuade further approaches, a fact he appreciates.

                The shrink asks if he got a hobby.

                 “Something like that,” he tells him.


	6. 6

                Dick’s never felt this before.

                He sits, three rows back, sandwiched between Bruce, Alfred and Pop Haly.  Behind them sit other members of the circus: gaffers, riggers, clowns, tumblers – friends, all.  In front of them are technicians, policemen, members of Vice, and even an FBI consultant from the Gotham field office.  Far ahead, the prosecutor is speaking to the stony-faced jury.

                Dick doesn’t see any of them so much as he is aware of their presence and he can’t hear them for the thudding of his heart in his chest.

                Tony Zucco, the crime boss behind his family’s murders, leans forward, whispering to the attorney he’d hired for his goons, and then sits down.  He looks back, right at Dick, and smiles cruelly.

                Dick stiffens, digging his fingers into his legs, and nearly gags on the sudden, inexplicable wave of nausea that’s come over him, but he doesn’t look away.

                He can’t.  He’s so angry and so afraid that he feels like he’s going crazy or is going to be sick and he doesn’t know which.  It’s terrifying in its intensity, choking him and making it hard to breathe.  It’s all he can think about and a distant part of his mind wonders if he’s going insane, but he can’t be because it all makes too much sense.

                In the back of his mind, all he hears is _he’s going to get away, this murdering scum is going to get away and he’s going to do this again and I can’t I can’t I can’t…_ And he knows he can’t take his eyes off that monster, not for one second.  If Zucco leaves, someone else Dick cares about could die, and he doesn’t want that.  He hates Zucco, wants him to drop dead with every fiber of his being, and as the court is adjourned for the day, he contemplates all the ways he could kill him using the things around him.  He’s strong, stronger than most kids his age, and Batman’s been teaching him some moves.  He knows exactly what angle and force he would need to use to ram the cartilage of the human nose into the brain and how much time it’ll take to get to Zucco, kill him and then out the door.  He’s fast.  Zucco wouldn’t even know what hit him.

                Zucco smirks at him as he passes and Dick freezes instantly, fury and fear bubbling up white hot as all he can hear are his family’s screams.   Then, he is suddenly flooded with cold, empty.  His fingers twitch: he could kill him right now, it would be so easy… _one strike, one strike_ … Bruce’s hand tightens on Dick’s shoulder and he doesn’t move.  He seethes silently, watching that scum leave, laughing at his impotent rage.

                “Come on,” Bruce says, guiding him back to the car.

                It is only later, when he’s back in the towncar, that Dick breaks down into hysterical tears, punching the seats with all his might, unable to contain the choking mix of fear and fury a moment longer, and doesn’t stop until he is completely and utterly empty.  Then, he sinks, every limb shaking from exhaustion and every nerve raw, into the seats and doesn’t move.

                “We’ll get him,” Batman says from under the mask that is Bruce, his gaze stony and distant.

                Dick wants to believe it’s a promise his mentor can keep, but in his heart he already suspects that this is one promise that will not be kept.

                Even if they have enough to nail Zucco to the wall, he knows too much about too many of Gotham’s crime families.  The FBI will cut him a deal to go after bigger fish like Marconi and he’ll get away with it.

                Dick doesn’t care.

                He wants Zucco to die.

                He collapses into sleep and dreams of nothing.


End file.
